


The Bird and the Worm

by rissalf, SilentSinger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blood, Bullying, Dreams and Nightmares, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluffy Gore, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Murder, Oral Sex, Romance (of sorts), Symbolism, Torture, Verbal Humiliation, a lot more blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-05-25 21:43:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6211234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rissalf/pseuds/rissalf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/pseuds/SilentSinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just how low is Oswald willing to stoop for his new best friend?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Charming Man

**Author's Note:**

> So Riss and I decided to write something together. It was bound to happen at some point.
> 
> Fic is set post S02E11: Worse Than a Crime.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretty damn low.

There was a certain pride to Oswald Cobblepot. While, due to circumstances beyond his control, he was no longer King of Gotham, he was still The Penguin – and such a title demanded respect. A brief spell in Arkham had left him deflated, but it had also led to some seemingly necessary introspection.

Arkham Asylum. Gotham’s own Alcatraz for the criminally insane. But Oswald wasn’t insane. Of course, his colourful desecration of Theodore Galavan’s lifeless body may have seemed, to some, a tad extreme, but to Oswald, any suffering he saw fit to bestow upon Galavan was simply a drop in the ocean compared to the pain he’d endured from having his beloved mother die in his arms.

If Jim Gordon hadn’t been present to stop him, he would have inserted an umbrella into Galavan’s other orifice, too.

Throughout his incarceration, Oswald learned that having a friend like Edward Nygma was a powerful thing. Edward had kept him updated via the medium of increasingly frustrating riddles, of the current goings on in the GCPD. He’d also somehow managed to gain access to Arkham’s personnel files – which meant that not only did he know exactly what was happening to Oswald while he was inside, he also knew precisely what Oswald needed to do in order to be released. Oswald soon learned, through Edward’s tuition – to say what Arkham wanted him to say, eat when Arkham wanted him to eat, and shit when Arkham wanted him to shit. It proved exceedingly beneficial to have a man on the inside, as a man on the inside.

Soon enough Oswald was released, and was once again indebted to his now, closest ally.

But there was another aspect present, throughout the tenure of their friendship. Something intangible. Of course, Edward had saved Oswald’s life, nursed him back to health and given him some seemingly necessary home truths – but there was another factor at play, a sentiment which was wholly enticing and stretched far beyond the realms of mere gratitude.

Edward Nygma was an itch Oswald just couldn’t scratch.

 

And so, a free man once more – although for now, living in one of Gotham’s finest rat-trap motels – it wasn’t surprising that when Edward decided he wanted to play a little game with Oswald, that Oswald – despite his better judgement, couldn’t help but comply.

It had started with an innocuous note, written in cursive script with luminous green ink on black paper, and delivered with the morning newspaper. Oswald would have brushed it off and thrown it away with the rest of the coupons, had the moderately sized question mark on the reverse of the note not caught his eye.

And so began a scavenger hunt of sorts, leading Oswald to many notable locations, including Gotham’s docks, Chinatown, a dry cleaner, The Merc, even Oswald’s now abandoned nightclub, and concluding in the last place Oswald wanted to find himself at this point in time – the GCPD.

****

Exhausted both physically and mentally, Oswald begrudgingly follows the final clue, purposely ignoring the gazes of intent disdain from the GCPD’s finest, into what he can only assume is Edward Nygma’s own office, and finds... absolutely nothing.

Oswald is, quite frankly, at this point, annoyed. Furious, even. The whole morning seemingly wasted on some whimsical wild goose chase, the former King of Gotham held at the mercy of his supposed friend’s entertainment.

Oswald had seen flickers of this side of Edward before; they’d killed together, of course, but Ed’s enthusiasm for antagonising the victim was always somewhat of a bone of contention with Oswald. Edward was significantly akin to a cat spending far too long toying with its meal. And so, Oswald was under no illusion that Ed wouldn’t be enjoying this, whatever  _ this _ was.

Exasperated, Oswald’s mouth tightens into a pucker. He turns smartly on his heel, cursing Nygma under his breath, and gets as far as the door when a phone rings behind him. Now, a ringing phone in an unfamiliar office wouldn’t normally give one pause, but the melody is achingly familiar to Oswald, and Ed is the only one who knows why.

_ “...dry the tears from my face…” _

It takes little effort for Oswald to find the source of the tune – a mobile phone, left in plain sight on Edward’s desk. It’s a vivid reminder of the time he and Edward shared while Oswald regained his strength – both in body and spirit, and he knows before he even answers that Ed will be on the other end.

“Hello, my feathered friend.” Oswald grinds his teeth, somehow surprised that Edward can radiate smugness even over the phone, and grips the handset a little tighter. “I’m pleased and surprised that you’ve come. To be honest, I wasn’t certain you would. Intellect isn’t everyone’s forte, after all.”

“What game is this,  _ Ed?” _

Oswald spits the name as if it were venom, as if doing so will expel the smarmy prick from his system and leave him in relative peace at last. He’s ever more irritated to find the exercise fruitless, and Edward chuckling coolly on the other end of the line.

“I want you in the bathroom, Oswald. Go. Now.”

The line goes dead before Oswald can object.

 

The GCPD’s public facilities are about as clean as one would expect – which is to say, Oswald doesn’t plan to spend any more time there than is absolutely necessary. He dodges an elderly gentleman reeking of cheap booze and stale urine on the way in, but finds the restroom seemingly empty once inside. He decides to check each stall – perhaps Ed has left yet another clue – but finds only the requisite grime and graffiti. The stall at the end, the one designed for wheelchair access, is his last stop. It, too, yields nothing.

It’s at this point that Oswald decides he’s had enough. Fuck Edward Nygma and his games. The Penguin is no one’s puppet.

_ “...I light another candle...” _

Oswald closes the cubicle door behind him and answers the call with a scowl. “Now what?”

“Have you done as you’re told?”

“Yes,” Oswald hisses through gritted teeth.

“Good. Now get on your knees.”

Except for Edward’s soft, even breathing, all is silent. There’s nothing to give away Edward’s location, and Oswald barely has time to consider the brusque command, when Ed’s patience begins to fray.

“Oswald? I’m going to say it one more time, and only one more time. Get on your fucking knees.”

The list of things Oswald would rather do grows with each passing moment, but he can feel that itch again as Edward burrows deeper into his brain, and he knows he doesn’t have it in him to disobey. Oswald awkwardly kneels, grimacing as his knees meet the damp tile floor next to the toilet.

“Good boy, Ozzie. Now, I want you to touch yourself.”

The request is entirely out of the blue, and there’s a moment where Oswald doesn’t breathe, doesn’t think, doesn’t even comprehend what Edward is demanding of him. They had, of course, exchanged a lingering glance or two during the course of their friendship – something that, for a fleeting moment, Oswald considered could be construed as lust and maybe even longing. But they’ve never done anything more than dance around each other, any seeds of such desire planted firmly in their respective psyches.

It has to be a joke. Surely Oswald has misheard. Slack-jawed, he chances a feeble “Excuse me?” only to be met with a puerile giggle from the other end of the line.

Oh, Ed was enjoying this, alright.

“I think you heard me perfectly, my friend,” Edward replies, the mirth seemingly absent from his voice now. “I suggest you do as you’re told. In fact, I know you will.”

Oswald is incensed. Edward Nygma may be Oswald’s only true friend right now, but just why did that give him the right to make such lewd demands?

And yet, there was another factor at play, something deeply tantalising about Ed’s coarse request that Oswald is finding almost impossible to deny. It conjures up images of his youth – his teenage years to be exact – spending far longer in the boys locker room than he really ought to have, knowing that what he felt was wrong, yet, during his nightly ministrations, unbelievably right.

His cock twitches at the thought, straining ever so slightly against the fabric of his pants. He tentatively brushes himself with the tips of his fingers before snapping out of his reverie.

“Ed...?”

“Do as I say, Oswald.”

And there it was. That tiny, nagging, silken worm, insistently working itself ever deeper into Oswald’s psyche – undulating under the surface of everything that Oswald holds dear, and nibbling away at any sense of reason.

Oswald fleetingly considers calling Edward out on his bluff, to see just what will happen, should he disobey. But that unreachable itch refuses to be ignored, and Oswald decides right then that he doesn’t want to do anything but give in.

And so, with a tug of his zipper, Oswald does just that. His body has already betrayed any doubts his mind sought to conjure, and once he has his cock in hand, it takes just a few determined strokes before he’s completely hard.

He doesn’t want to think of Edward now. Doesn’t want to imagine that it’s Ed’s long, agile fingers wrapped around his dick instead of his own. And he certainly doesn’t want to see Ed’s face – his dark eyes watching, devouring – his lips pulled into a carnal sneer as he regards such a disgusting display.

Oswald doesn’t want to, but he does.

“Ohhh,” he exhales.

It’s at that point, having finally conceded his pride to base desire, that Oswald really begins to enjoy himself. Pale eyes fluttering shut, he lets his head fall back as his hand keeps a measured, deliberate pace up and down the length of his shaft.

It feels good, too fucking good, really.  _ Hell, _ Oswald muses, as he increases his pace,  _ it feels fucking fantastic. _

_ So this is how The Penguin is getting his kicks these days. _

The thought flickers across his mind, unexpectedly, but not entirely unwelcome. What would his former rabble of hired thugs and associates say if they could see him now? He imagines their hushed utterances of disgust at the sight of their boss, on his knees, pleasuring himself in a public bathroom.

“Mmm...” he moans, lips pressed into a flat line as he considers just how perverse this whole situation is. Was this Ed’s intent all along?

Edward Nygma. Tall, dark, exquisitely crafted. Oswald inhales sharply as he squeezes himself lightly, his strokes becoming more pronounced as he pictures Ed once more, towering over him, perhaps even unzipping his own pants-

“Fffuck,” Oswald breathes.

In his state of mindless gratification, Oswald has forgotten one very important fact about his current whereabouts – namely, that a public restroom is open to the public. But, in keeping with his current streak of astonishingly bad luck, it’s at that moment that the universe helpfully decides to remind him.

Oswald freezes mid-stroke, the belaboured squeak of the restroom door yanking him discourteously from his fantasising, as a pair of feet shuffle closer and closer, before finally halting as the intruder settles in inside one of the neighbouring cubicles.

“You’re not alone,” Edward remarks, in his first vocalisation since this vulgar act had begun. It’s clear that Edward is all too pleased with this turn of events, and Oswald can actually hear his friend grinning over the phone as he issues yet another command.

“Don’t stop.”

Oswald can’t protest without giving himself away – and, really, he’s too damn close to stop now. He bites his lip to keep from making noise, though he can’t help but wonder just what it is that Edward is getting out of this exchange. If it were merely an exercise in power, well, there are any number of requests Ed could have made, none of which involve anything so crude as masturbating in a public toilet. Oswald struggles to keep his breathing quiet as he works himself, his strokes growing shorter and quicker as his cock aches for release; any deeper rumination on Edward’s motives will have to wait.

In all honesty, the visitor somewhat drives home just how ludicrously wrong this whole scenario is, which also makes it all the more alluring. Oswald toils with the arduous task of not crying out, and it’s with some sense of relief when the sound of flushing water fills the vicinity.

Oswald silently rejoices when the interloper seemingly doesn’t wash his hands, and he resumes his breakneck pace when he hears the sound of the door closing shut.

Ed is silent once more, and Oswald almost wishes he would speak, talk him through this, tell him what a filthy fucking cunt he is, and then, and then-

_ Do as I say, Oswald. _

The words echo in his mind, and as a man who had spent a reasonable amount of time working in a position of great power, being commanded in such a way was undeniably thrilling.

_ Do as I- _

Oswald cries out as waves of pleasure overwhelm him, his seed spilling out over his hand and onto the damp floor beneath him. In his ecstasy he almost drops the phone, too, forgetting where he is and what he’s doing for a split second until Edward speaks once more.

“Good boy, Ozzie.”

“Ed, I...” Spent, red-faced and open-mouthed, feeling used and utterly, utterly filthy, Oswald remains in position, hesitantly longing for another command.

“I’ll be in touch,” Edward chuckles, as, with a click, Oswald is left with nothing but a dial tone.

And Oswald, despite all sense of reason, simply cannot wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're not sorry.
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)


	2. Take Me to Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald wrestles with guilt over his deplorable actions.

Frankie Carbone. The old fisherman with the tasty looking sandwich. Sal Maroni’s delivery guy. Fish Mooney. The gentleman who had jeered at Mother. Theo Galavan. Countless others.

Oswald Cobblepot had in fact, lost count of his own particular murder tally. Adversaries – big and small – come and go, and extinguishing them was as natural to Oswald as stubbing out a cigarette. As such, guilt was not an emotion he was familiar with; in fact he’d always revelled in the transcendent sense of power he achieved from watching someone take their final breath by his own hands – even the nobodies. A dead nobody is still one step closer to one’s goal – whatever that goal may be.

It was safe to say that Oswald Cobblepot never felt remorse. Until now.

****

Awakening with a start is always unpleasant. Awakening with a start in an unknown location is downright terrifying.

The sunlight is almost blinding. It seeps in from a large coloured window to the left, bathing his surroundings in a dappled mixture of blue and violet. The scent of warm pine engulfs Oswald’s senses; it could be comforting, save for the unease he’s feeling. He’s seated, bolt upright, his hands clasped and resting gently on his lap.

Oswald knows where he is, but why is he here?

_ I’m not supposed to be here. _

Did he say that out loud? Or just think it? Oswald furrows his brow and peers around the vast hall.

_ I really should be leaving now. _

_ He won’t let you. You know why. _

Oswald is wearing Edward’s plaid pyjamas.  _ Odd attire for my current location, _ he muses.

He glances up just as a tall, robed figure approaches, and feels a mixture of apprehension and relief.

“Father! Please, you have to believe me. There’s been a terrible misunderstanding.”

Silence. The figure maintains his gradual pace, heavy footsteps echoing throughout the grand church hall.

Oswald squints his eyes – the priest’s face is obscured by sunlight. He tries standing, to get a better view, but instead finds himself kneeling in front of the pew he was seated on moments before.

_ Why did you do that? He’s coming, he’s coming! He’s co- _

As a pair of feet come to a complete stop in front of him, Oswald hesitantly gazes up past sleek folds of black fabric and into Edward’s smirking face.

“Ed! Thank God it’s you. We have to leave. We have to leave here, now,” Oswald begins, unable to control the alarm in his voice.

Edward grins at him, shark-like. His eyes are completely obscured by the sunlight reflected from his glasses. Disconcerted, Oswald shivers.

“Ed, for fuck’s sake! We have to go!” he bleats, tugging pathetically at the man’s cassock.

Edward doesn’t budge. Instead, he begins to chuckle as he unclips the rosary beads from around his neck.

“Ed, please...” Oswald croaks as, through no will of his own, he finds himself clasping and raising his hands, as if in prayer.

Edward’s chuckle has evolved into full-blown laughter now – deafening in its intensity as it echoes from the stone walls around them while he wraps the rosary tightly around Oswald’s proffered wrists. Once the beads are secured and digging into his flesh, Oswald cries out as, in one fluid movement, Ed hauls him to his feet, spins him around in a manner reminiscent of some kind of macabre ballet, and brings him back down to his knees – hard, slamming him face first into the wooden pew.

Searing pain shoots through Oswald’s nose, and his mouth is soon filled with the acrid taste of his own blood. A strong hand presses his head firmly against the polished wooden surface, as another yanks down his pyjama pants.

From his prone position, he feels hot breath against his ear as Edward leans in close and whispers,

“Are you ready to confess?”

****

Oswald awakes abruptly once more, somewhat comforted by the fact that this time – he’s in his own bed. He lies there for a moment, his breathing uneven and his brow damp with sweat. He grimaces when it becomes apparent there’s a damp patch between his legs, and he throws back the covers and glares down at his softening cock, cursing Edward Nygma’s name as he does so.

Oswald was, above all else, an intelligent man, yet this not-so-subtle manifestation of guilt perplexed him. Why did this particular misdemeanour bother him so? Why did Ed have such an apparent hold on him?

The incident in the GCPD restroom replaying in his head, Oswald chokes on uncharacteristic disgust as if it were vomit. In an attempt to rationalise his behaviour, he tells himself that his actions were perfectly natural, healthy even. But he cannot escape the glaring fact that pleasuring oneself on the floor of a public toilet is not natural, not at all. And above all else, Oswald struggles with another aspect of his transgression, one that writhes beneath his skin and sears into his consciousness, refusing to be ignored for very long.

Simply put, those few moments of desperate depravity were the most arousing of his life.

_ God help me. _

Oswald relaxes back onto his pillow and almost chuckles. He’s never been a religious man, never saw the good of blind devotion – unless it was someone pledging themselves to his own organisation. The idea of falling prostrate before anyone or anything is, frankly, downright revolting. That sort of humility makes one weak, and while Oswald considers himself many things – admitting, even, to a few faults – the one thing he refuses to be is weak. But there’s a part of him, small and persistent, that wonders,  _ Am I being punished? _

****

Oswald has come so far now, to know that opening a gift bearing a riddle on the tag – left in plain sight on his doorstep – is probably a bad idea, and yet, he simply doesn’t care. Once more that tiny, unrelenting seed of longing rears its head, knowing that whatever Edward has in store for him this time that he, without a shadow of a doubt, wants to be part of it.

If only he could pinpoint why.

Frowning, Oswald reads the label, silently mouthing the words as he does so.

_ I weaken all men for hours each day, _

_ I show you strange visions while you are away. _

_ I take you by night, by day take you back, _

_ none suffer to have me, but do from my lack. _

“Sleep,” he mutters. What did Ed know? Ed couldn’t know. The very idea was preposterous.

He almost throws the damn thing away, unopened, in disgust. However, in a queer parallel to his dream-self offering himself willingly to Edward, he instead finds himself tearing at violet ribbon, ripping away at jade paper, and opening the parcel to find-

****

Awakening with a start is always unpleasant. Awakening with a start in an unknown location is downright terrifying.

Oswald cannot see. He blinks – once, twice – as if doing so will shake the shackles of sleep from his eyelids. But this, he quickly realises, is no dream. This horrifying realisation socks him in the gut, and he sucks in a wheezing breath, trying and utterly failing to allay the overwhelming sense of panic. Oswald drowns in the blackness. It smothers him, choking off the light, sucking all the air out with it. He doesn’t know where he is, and he doesn’t know why he’s here.

Worse still, he cannot properly move. Wrists bound overhead, Oswald wriggles, like a worm on a hook, unable to do anything except wait for some predator to come and swallow him whole.

_ Think, Oswald. _

The last thing he remembers, truly, is opening Ed’s gift. This couldn’t be Ed’s handiwork, could it? Doubtful. There are all manner of citizens, law-abiding or otherwise, that had disagreed completely with Oswald’s release from Arkham.  _ No, _ Oswald supposes,  _ this is something far more sinister. _

Further deduction, it seems, would have to wait. Oswald’s whole body tenses as it becomes evident that he’s not alone. Footsteps are approaching, barely audible at first – but to a man blindfolded and fearing for his life, each step is magnified – like the ominous beat of a drum at a funeral cortege.

And that was what this was. Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, former King of Gotham, about to become fish food for whomever had staged this. The Penguin, caught, because of his own weakness – his apparent vulnerability for one Edward Nygma.

“Better off unencumbered” indeed. Hah! If only he’d listened.

The footsteps settle in front of him, pausing for a brief moment before fingers – strong and persistent – start to unclip his suspenders.

“Please, wait, what are you doing?” Oswald questions, a chill air engulfing the lower half of his body as his pants are removed completely.

It must be a lackey of some sort, preparing him for God knows what. So few criminals tend to do their own dirty work, these days.

“Stop,  _ please. _ I- I have money. I can give you whatever you want.”

It’s a bold-faced lie, of course. Oswald’s assets were stripped away before he entered Arkham, and while not entirely destitute, he can barely keep up with the weekly rate on his motel room. But it’s possible that this hired grunt doesn’t know that, and hired grunts can invariably be counted on to quaver at the faintest scent of a few extra bucks.

Talking himself out of tough situations has always been Oswald’s talent. Knowing what people want, exploiting those nagging doubts, massaging those bruised egos. Sometimes, all a lackey needs is a gentle push, and before you know it, they’re eating out of your hand and calling you “boss”.

But to Oswald’s horror, the offer earns a sharp, quick smack on the ass, and he winces as his shorts are roughly yanked away as well, leaving him entirely naked from the waist down.

Oswald’s heart pounds in his ears. Whatever sins he’s committed during his short life – and admittedly, the list is quite long – he’s certain that this impending punishment is undeserved. He can feel the foreboding presence of his tormentor drawing closer, a creeping shadow spreading slowly up the walls in the dead of night. It waits and watches, biding its time until just the right moment to gobble up its prey. Oswald swallows hard; if only someone would turn on the lights.

A pair of hands wander up Oswald’s thighs, soft and unhurried in their ascent, and Oswald gasps as one of them brushes his cock. It feels like a seduction of sorts - and though he’s terrified, Oswald feels himself stirring at the touch.

Fingers continue to tease, to stroke, coaxing his arousal. He doesn’t want to give in, but he’s completely lost the moment a tongue begins to trace a slow, wet trail up the length of his shaft. It pauses to flirt, swirling enticingly around the head of his cock, before the velvet heat of the stranger’s mouth envelops the entire length of him.

It should feel so much more wrong. Some stranger has their mouth on his dick. Oswald knows he ought to struggle, ought to protest. But every time he opens his mouth, a deep, satisfied groan slips out, giving away just what sort of filthy degenerate he’s become.  _ Fuck. _

_ I don’t want this. _

He could say it. Shout it. Sob it. Even if it did no good, he could sleep easier with the knowledge that he at least tried to resist.

_ But you won’t. _

Oswald flinches as that small, still voice of conscience is replaced with another, and the hands grasping his thighs squeeze a bit harder. Of all the people to think of now, it had to be Edward Nygma.

_ You like feeling like a dirty cunt, don’t you? _

“F-fuck,” Oswald moans.

_ Of course you do. _

That’s the crux of it. He really fucking does. Every greedy slurp from the person eating his cock like it’s the last meal they’ll ever have sends a jolt through Oswald that runs from his teeth to his toes.

Between the pawing hands and insistent mouthing, Oswald knows he likely won’t last long. What then? Will this faceless stranger eagerly swallow him? Suck him until he’s dry? Oswald’s legs buckle at the thought; it’s only the crude trussing that keeps him upright.

_ Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? _

“Please, fuck,” he whines.

Even with the rope biting into his wrists, it’s the pleasure that swamps Oswald. The heat, the soft, pliant tongue bathing every inch of him in exquisite warmth – Oswald teeters ever closer to release, utterly at his captor’s mercy. Any moment, euphoria will come. He needs only a few more-

Then it’s all gone.

The mouth, the hands, the promise of blissful relief. All snatched away with no warning. And once again, Oswald feels like the air has been knocked out of him.

_ I think you know what you need to do, Oswald. _

Edward Nygma, voice of conscience. Oh, that’s just grand. But Oswald knows he’s right. The question is – does he want this badly enough to beg? And to beg an unknown stranger holding him hostage at that?

_ Go on. Do it. _

“P-please,” Oswald begins, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Don’t stop.”

He half expects another smack; instead, the request is met with silence. Of course it wouldn’t be so simple. Whomever has decided to play this sick game is clearly not one to be swayed with any sort of ease.

“I implore you to come back. Please – I  _ need _ this,” he whines, considerably louder this time. His voice cracks with desperation; it’s sickening, he knows, but Oswald is too worried with how much he needs that mouth on his cock  _ right fucking now _ to care. “I- I’ll do whatever you want, sir. Or madam. Whomever you are. Just...  _ please continue.” _

Silence. Oswald knows, for all intents and purposes, that the next utterance from his lips will either make or break this situation – and so he finds himself drawing a deep, shuddering breath before whispering – with all the enunciation he can muster,

“Please. I’m begging you.”

A beat, and then,  _ thank God, _ the mouth is back on his dick once more, taking him in all the way down to the balls – that playful, velvety tongue dancing over every inch of his length. A pair of hands clutch tightly to his ass – fingernails digging into glute as they urge him forward. Slurps, interjected with little satisfied groans, are now barely audible over the obscene, vulgar discord escaping Oswald’s own throat, and he writhes against his restraints as he moans like a tawdry hooker.

His climax is building now, closer, ever closer. The heat is overwhelming, creeping and throbbing and blanketing every inch of his body.

He imagines it’s Edward down there, on his knees – lascivious gaze and reddened lips, and so, when he comes – it’s Ed’s name he yells. He thrusts his hips forward as he does so, shooting hard into the stranger’s mouth as the hands on his buttocks squeeze firmly, as if commending him on a job well done.

And then – all is still.

****

The blindfold removed, Oswald squints against the disorienting brightness. At first, all he can see is the shadowed outline of a slight but imposing figure; against a backdrop of golden light, he looks almost ethereal. Oswald knows this scene. Well, in fact. There’s no grand hall, no delicate stained glass, no odour of pine filling his nostrils – but the sense of dread is the same. Disgust swells inside of him, and Oswald feels as though he needs to vomit, to confess, to expel that which has so poisoned his mind.

“Please,” he sputters, as if feeble mewling will keep his captor at bay.

It is, of course, to no avail. As his assailant steadily emerges into focus, Oswald can only squirm impotently against his bonds.

Oswald sees his teeth first – a mouth full of white, a grin that’s at best unsettling and, at this particular moment, absolutely predatory. He knows whose face is attached to that grin, and he’s simultaneously relieved and terrified when the visage comes completely into view.

“Oh, Mr. Penguin,” Edward murmurs. He gives his perfectly bound guest a gentle tug, until the two men are nose to nose and sharing an all-too-intimate breath.

“Whatever should I do with you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a bunch of stuff that already exists, such as [this asshole](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/137232053118/are-you-ready-to-confess-as-requested), [this lovely piece of art](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/137751161313/oh-mr-penguin-ed-murmurs-he-takes-his), and [this gifset](http://okimi79.tumblr.com/post/137824440677/insp) (based on the aforementioned art).
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)


	3. Domino Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward reveals his motives at last.

Aside from the sublime sense of satisfaction he had achieved from beating Theo Galavan near to death with a baseball bat, Oswald Cobblepot had never really seen the point of brute force – dealt by his own hands, at least. There was little need when one could find all manner of subjects willing to perform such menial tasks – if the price was right.

He had, in fact, only ever punched a person once in his whole life – a snivelling little weasel by the name of Garry Malonzo – back when Oswald was at school.

It had, once again, been Oswald’s mother, who had been the catalyst for the occurrence.

 

Malonzo had begun his reign of terror on the day they had first met, goading Oswald for his spindly frame and beak-like nose. Oswald was a keen bird watcher, in his youth – a hobby that seemed to offend Garry Malonzo to his very soul. He’d once found Oswald, after classes, sat peacefully in the shade of an oak tree, poring over an ornithology book – a gift from his mother, in fact. Malonzo had snatched the book from Oswald’s hands and ran – tearing off page after page as he did so. Oswald had given chase, but his tormentor was whippet-quick, and thus all Oswald could do was pick up the lost pages as his speed slowed to a plod and his vision swam with tears.

The remains of his beloved book had been delivered back to him – he’d found them in his locker – stinking and fetid and covered with God knows what.

And that was pretty much Oswald’s entire existence during his educative years. Harassed, mocked and bullied by degenerates like Malonzo and his ilk. His primary antagonist was slight of frame himself, and shorter in stature than even Oswald – but he had companions. He always had companions. Whether they kept his company due to fear, or for other reasons, Oswald never found out – but if he learned one thing from his experiences with the Malonzo crowd, it was that it always pays to have accomplices.

As such, Garry never fought Oswald himself; however, he’d often have a couple of corpulent associates deliver a beating here and there. Sometimes they’d hold Oswald to the ground as Garry himself delivered his  _ coup de grâce,  _ whether it was a painful wedgie or something far more abhorrent – for example the time when he’d pulled a switchblade on Oswald, and threatened to cut out his tongue, should he report the incident.

And so Oswald existed – in silence, and fear, until the time came when even Malonzo pushed him too far.

****

Garry always had a knack for catching Oswald unaware – popping up from seemingly nowhere, and always at the worst possible times – but on that day, Oswald knew he was coming. Maybe it was his body’s way of evolving. Maybe it was a self-preservation instinct finally wriggling up from the dirt. Maybe, after years of persecution, one simply develops a sixth sense for such things. But as Oswald sits beneath the still oak he considered a refuge of sorts, he suddenly tenses – feeling the ominous breeze just before Garry and his flunkies blow in for yet another round of torment.

“There’s the freak.” Garry and his rotund posse cackle to themselves as if this is the funniest joke ever uttered, before the tallest and fattest of the trio belches out a “How’s your mom,  _ Oswank?  _ Tell her I’ll be by later to pay her for last night.”

Another howl of laughter. The mention of his mother pulls something inside, and Oswald pushes himself to his feet without really thinking. He’s trembling, and his eyes suddenly feel much too wet, but Oswald does not run.

Garry rolls his eyes. “She’d never fuck  _ you,”  _ he sneers at his companion. “Everyone knows Mama Cobblepot’s only got eyes for her Oswald.”

The din of laughter, which has swollen to near cacophonous levels, immediately dies away. Even the dim-witted dolts Garry considers friends know that this particular invective is a step too far.

It happens quickly after that. Shaking and filled with an almost blinding fury, Oswald draws his balled fist and throws it at Garry’s face, putting every ounce of weight into the blow. The feel of rigid bone against yielding flesh, while not entirely painless for Oswald, is a reward in and of itself. And best of all – Garry Malonzo, blood flowing freely from his nose to stain his crisp white shirt, looks utterly shaken.

For all of ten seconds.

Oswald barely has time to drink in the intoxicating draught of seeing his tormentor bloodied and humiliated, before Garry’s expression changes. With all the abruptness of a thunderclap, Malonzo’s eyes flash with fury, and his lips creep upwards into a hellhound’s snarl.

“You’re dead, Cobblepot.”

They descend then, Garry and his dogs, in a flurry of fists and feet. After a while, Oswald stops counting how many times he’s been kicked in the ribs; he stops taking note of the awful insults they heap upon him. He simply closes his eyes and endeavours to breathe, curling up tight until – at last – a teacher drags the boys away.

 

And thus, Oswald learned, that while the fleeting gratification of administering physical violence was almost reward in itself, it was never quite reward enough. If Oswald was ever to amount to anything – he would most certainly need assistance.

****

Oswald was somewhat relieved to discover that the location for this particular stage of Ed’s game hadn’t been a church after all, but rather, one of Gotham’s countless abandoned warehouses. This one – it seems, was quite freshly deserted. There are a few shelves about the place, along with rows of neatly stacked boxes. Steel barrels dot the landscape here and there – like chess pieces from a game long transpired. Oswald finds himself internally questioning whether Edward had a reason for choosing this particular location, when Ed himself begins to speak.

“You’re probably curious to discover why I’ve been putting you through all of this, Oswald. You see, right after I killed Miss Kringle, I had an awakening,” Edward begins, gesticulating wildly as he paces the floor in front of Oswald.

Fully clothed now and rubbing his wrists – still sore from the ropes that were binding them moments before – Oswald glares at Edward as he inaugurates what was sure to be a rousing monologue.

“Essentially, I learned that the most gratifying part of any kill is the thrill of getting caught.” Ed is grinning now; his expression is somewhat akin to a child unwrapping a shiny new bicycle on Christmas morning.

“And because of that, Oswald, my dear friend, I wanted you to experience the same thrill. Oh, I know, you’re a seasoned killer. You’ve killed more people than I’ve solved crossword puzzles. But it’s perfunctory to you. You’ve lost your passion, Ozzie. Don’t you see? And that,” he pauses, running his fingers through his hair as he fixes Oswald with a gaze that could almost be construed as apologetic, “is why I made you do what you did. I wanted you to experience the excitement that comes from almost getting caught.”

“You influenced me to masturbate in a public toilet.”

“I did.” Edward giggles impishly for a few moments, unable – or perhaps unwilling – to contain his amusement, before turning serious once more. “Tell me, Oswald, what was going through your mind while you were on your knees? And when you suddenly weren’t alone any more – how did it feel? Knowing you could be discovered at any moment – knowing what might happen, should you be caught? It was thrilling, was it not?”

“If by ‘thrilling’ you mean ‘disgusting’, then yes, Ed. I’ve never felt more thrilled in my entire life,” Oswald snaps. The frayed string of patience he’s using to measure Ed’s heartfelt explanation is growing ever thinner by the second.

“And let’s not discount one very important fact, Oswald,” says Edward, trying and evidently failing to suppress the borderline salacious smirk adorning his lips, “which is – you enjoyed it.”

“Fuck you,” Oswald spits. “So enlighten me, Ed. While you’re regaling me with tales of your master plan, what was your reasoning for _this_ particular venture?” he gestures vaguely at their surroundings, feeling sick to his stomach at the very thought of what transpired here mere minutes before.

“Oh, this?” Ed chuckles, clearly taken with his own cleverness. “Honestly, Oswald... I just wanted to hear you beg.”

Right then, Oswald knows what he wants – what he  _ needs _ to do. That tattered string of patience is now in pieces, and Oswald no longer cares for the whys and the wherefores. The rage burns inside him like a brand, and suddenly he’s twelve years old again, back under that old oak tree, and face to face with his leering aggressor. But – unlike Malonzo, Edward is alone.

There’s a moment, a brief moment – right before Oswald’s fist hits Ed’s smug face with a sickening crack – where time just seems to freeze. Soon enough though, there’s a yelp of pain from Edward, as a trickle of red begins to flow effortlessly from his nose.

He teeters backwards for a second, his eyes wide and his hand cupping his nose as blood oozes around his fingers before steadying himself, removing his crimson-stained hand and staring at Oswald in open-mouthed astonishment.

Oswald could almost laugh at the dumbfounded expression on the man’s face, if he wasn’t so fucking angry. Adrenaline still coursing through his veins, Oswald cries out discordantly as he throws blow after blow at Ed – causing the taller man to take staggering steps backwards as he draws his arms close to his body in an attempt to defend himself.

For Oswald – his face beetroot red and now pouring with sweat – this was years of bullying, harassment and torment bubbling up to the surface at last. This was for all the Malonzos, the Maronis, the Galavans, and the fucking Fish Mooneys. Each blow he deals to Edward’s lanky frame is a catharsis – a cleansing rain to wash over past events, and drown the bullies in its flood.

He roars as he charges forwards, tackling Ed head-on and pushing him with all his might into a steel shelf – the contents of which scatter and smash to the floor around them. Edward’s fight or flight instinct seems to switch gear, a primal gleam in his eye and his lips curled into a snarl as he seizes Oswald’s wrists mid-blow. Oswald is even more enraged when it becomes apparent that the fucker is actually  _ laughing.  _ Ed heaves him sideways, crashing him side-on into the shelf – but his own pain is the last thing on Oswald’s mind. He begins to kick, to scratch, to claw and grab – he wants to inflict anything and everything he can possibly muster on Edward  _ fucking _ Nygma.

Ed hits him in the mouth, splitting his lip as they ungracefully lurch about the place, pushing and pulling and hitting and yelling until Edward, with remarkable strength, flings Oswald head first into a wooden crate. The resonant crack of splintering wood fills the air as he lies almost motionless – his breathing laboured, like a wounded animal.

Oswald struggles back to his knees, only to find himself an inch away from the barrel of a Colt Python. Most people, when faced with such a perilous situation, would panic. Or plead. But Oswald Cobblepot has had enough begging for today, and he doesn’t for one second believe that Ed has it in him to pull the trigger. And so, Oswald acts on the first idea that comes to mind, drawing the barrel into his mouth, pale eyes never leaving Edward as he sucks on six inches of cool stainless steel.

 

Of course, Edward never intended to pull the trigger. But of all the possible outcomes he did expect from this particular scenario, Oswald Cobblepot fellating his gun was at the very bottom of the list. The sight is captivating – drawing a whispered “damn” from Ed’s lips as he regards the display with reverence.

That, apparently isn’t all the former king of Gotham has in store for him, however. Smiling mischievously around the metal in his mouth, Oswald leans in closer and unzips Edward’s pants, freeing his already semi-erect cock from its confines.

Edward is so enraptured with the sight of Oswald – on his knees, wickedly suckling at the very thing that could end his life – that he’s loathe for it to end. Oh, he wants that mouth for himself – there’s no doubting that. But Ed wants to savour this image for as long as he’s able.

He spits into his hand, still viscous with blood from his busted nose, and gives himself a few messy strokes before Oswald, insistent on taking over, slips a hand around his cock.

It’s beyond comprehension – the whole scene, even for Edward Nygma. Oswald’s hand works his thick shaft leisurely, slick and sticky with blood. His eyes never leave Edward’s as he hollows his cheeks and works the barrel of the Python like he’s been sucking dick all his life. Has he? Ed doesn’t even care. This was infinitely more than Edward could have ever dreamed of. This was a fucking tableau. This was fucking  _ art.  _ This was...  _ fuck. _

And Ed wants more. Right fucking now. With a shaking voice he barely recognises as his own, he issues a croaked, “Get up. Turn around.”

Oswald pulls off the Python with one long, wet slurp before clambering to his feet with a groan. His forehead glossy with sweat, inky hair thoroughly dishevelled, it’s striking just how little Oswald resembles the dapper gangster who once sat insolent and untouchable atop the throne of Gotham’s sordid underbelly.

He’s barely upright when Ed grabs him by the back of the neck and hauls him a few feet away – bending him hard over the top of a half-rusted barrel. Oswald squawks out a litany of obscenities as his ribs meet the rigid metal lip, but the pained pronouncements die away when Ed reaches around and roughly tugs at his zipper.

Ed strips away the offending garment with little fanfare, pleased to find Oswald already hard, pre-come beading on the head of his cock. He indulges a few teasing strokes, simply to hear Oswald groan, before spitting into his palm and spreading Oswald’s bare cheeks.

“Christ, do you know how long I’ve wanted to fuck you?” Edward murmurs, teasing the puckered opening with the tips of his fingers before finally dipping one of his long digits inside, followed by another. When Oswald moans in response, pushing back to draw him further in, Ed smirks. “You’ll enjoy this.”

“F-fuck,” Oswald stammers. “Yes – please, Ed.”

That utterance – wanton and desperate need spilling from Oswald’s bruised lips – has been at the forefront of Edward’s mind for months now. As he toiled away on his plans, pondering the various ways of pushing his friend to the breaking point, it was the idea of Oswald someday yearning for him that captivated Edward most – inspiring more than a few of bouts of frenzied ministration beneath his bedsheets.

And now that Oswald wants him, Edward simply cannot wait to claim his prize any longer. He withdraws his fingers at once, stepping out of his pants and pressing his cock against Oswald’s hole, hesitating for only a moment before finally pushing inside. A sharp intake of breath – from both men – punctuates the quiet of the cavernous space, and as Ed begins to move, the warehouse fills with noise, swelling like the crescendo of strings in some obscene orchestra.

Oswald can do little but cling to the barrel as Edward fucks him – hard and fast, their balls slapping together with each frantic thrust. Edward moves as though he can’t get deep enough inside of Oswald, as though he won’t be satisfied until he’s burrowed in completely. His hands grasp possessively, fingers digging into the soft flesh of Oswald’s hips.  _ That’s going to bruise _ , Ed thinks, but he cannot find it in him to care. He wants Oswald to be his, he wants him, he wants-

Everything. Panting and soaked with sweat, Edward begins to slow. At such a blistering clip, he would never last long, and Ed has more in mind than a quick, heedless fuck.

He’s struck with an overwhelming need to see Oswald’s face then, to memorise every messy detail of their impetuous affair. It’s not enough to hear the moaning or even to feel the clench of muscle enveloping him. No, Edward wants to see as well. And what’s more, he doesn’t want this to end so soon.

With all manner of haste – and a cry of protest from Oswald, Edward pulls out and lifts Oswald to his feet, turning him around so that they’re face to face. Breathing raggedly, and covered in dirt and blood, Oswald looks utterly stunned and utterly perfect.

Oswald’s lower lip is split and bleeding from their earlier altercation, and as Ed leans in close to kiss him – to claim that mouth once and for all, he instead finds himself running his tongue lightly across the laceration, the metallic flavour coating his senses as Oswald gasps in response.

Pulling the bewildered man into a tight embrace, Ed kisses him forcefully. It’s chaotic and noisy and unrefined, and when Edward captures both their cocks in a firm grasp, Oswald groans into his mouth in return. He pumps them both messily; it’s sweaty and filthy and they stagger around, lips locked together – Oswald on tiptoes and his hands clutching tightly to Ed’s buttocks as they stumble into shelves and knock over piles of boxes in their frenzy.

They careen around blindly, and an  _ oomph _ of surprise escapes Oswald when Edward backs him up against a shelf and his ass hits cold metal.

“Me and you,” Ed breathes into Oswald’s mouth, their cocks sliding together with delicious wetness as he works them as one. “Me and you, just like this, Oswald.”

There’s a muted whimper from Oswald’s lips, his hands now clinging desperately to the steel frame behind him, and Ed knows right then and there what he needs from him.

“Come for me, Oswald. Please.”

Oswald makes little strangled noises as their kiss deepens further, and his whole body shudders as his cock twitches in Edward’s unyielding grasp. He comes then, thick and sticky and wet over Ed’s fist, and Ed follows suit, squeezing them both dry in a cacophony of obscenity.

Neither man seems eager to move, the intimacy of the moment oddly satisfying as they simply breathe together, the tempest that inflamed them now little more than a tranquil breeze. It feels very much like the beginning of something. Of what, Edward can’t be certain. He waits for Oswald to say something – anything that might affirm whether he feels it, too. Because, surely, he must.

He waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hereby referring to copious strings of plot in porn 'A Malonzo'. Feel free to use it. ;)  
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	4. Fast Fuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed wants to play another game, in the nicest way possible.

They’d slept.

Amongst the shelves, the boxes, the chaos, the destruction and debris, they’d slept. Exhausted and content, limbs intertwined and breathing deeply, they’d slept.

And Oswald had woken up alone.

****

There had been a new gift. It sat, unopened on the coffee table, amongst the accoutrements of Oswald’s indecision – an open wine bottle, a chipped glass, an overflowing ashtray.

Black wrapping, dotted with lime green question marks. No ribbon, no tag, yet still no question as to whom it was from. It had arrived precisely one week after Oswald last saw Edward, one week after he had gazed into his eyes as they shared a moment of utmost intimacy.

And Oswald hadn’t heard from him since.

It became a fixture of sorts, the gift. Oswald couldn’t pinpoint exactly why he was so unwilling to play along this time. He longed for Edward, needed him like a junkie needed a fix; he’d tasted Ed’s lips, felt the man inside of him, his skin still bore the bruises of their affair. Yet every time he sought to concede, to open the parcel and see just what Ed had in store for him this time, his insides clenched. He was genuinely vexed at waking up alone – that much was true, but the most vocal of all the nagging doubts, was that perhaps some small part of him wished that their game of cat and mouse had ended in that warehouse.

Hours became days, days became weeks. Oswald drank, he smoked, he paced the floor. He pursed his lips, shook, poked and prodded the offending item. Should he just call Edward? Why didn’t Ed call him? Why the fuck did it have to be like this?

Curiosity, of course, won out. The itch was still there; it never left. If anything, it had only been fuelled by their journey so far.

One late afternoon, laying on the carpet on his stomach, package on the floor in front of him, he finally concedes. He’d taken to placing it in different areas as of late: the television stand, his bedside table, even sitting atop the toilet cistern – as if viewing it from all angles would somehow reveal its contents.

With a sigh of resignation and a shaking hand, he tears away the wrapping and opens the box to find practically nothing, save for a small, jet black card with  _ Oswald’s  _ written upon it in silver, cursive script.

Oswald, of course, recognised his old business card. How could he not? The club was long abandoned, however – a faded facet of his own personal odyssey. What did Ed have in store?

As Oswald turns the card over and reads the reverse, the frown adorning his lips shifts into a wry smirk.

_ 05.16 _

_ 20:30 _

Oswald would be there. Of course he would.

****

Not so long ago,  _ Oswald’s _ had been a fount of pride for the budding gangster, one tiny jewel resplendent with the promise of grander things to come. It had been a modest establishment, but classy – and most important of all, it had been his. That, of course, was before. Before Theo Galavan and his unfathomable malignity. Before the horrors of Arkham. Before he’d lost everything.

Before Edward fucking Nygma.

Now the club sat empty, a mere shell of its glory days. So why, exactly, had Ed wanted him here? Oswald had pondered this question dozens of times since opening Ed’s little summons, never able to suss out a motive from the madness. But whatever game Edward had planned this time, Oswald was more than ready to play.

He enters through the front door, at once surprised and apprehensive that Ed has made things so easy. Too easy? Oswald shakes the intrusive thought away and stumbles through the darkness, feeling his way past familiar landmarks – the umbrella-shaped neon signage, the long, marble-topped bar – until he’s birthed at last into the belly of the ballroom.

Then he waits – alone in the dark, feeling ever more foolish as the seconds tick past.

As his eyes adjust to the gloom, it becomes apparent that there’s something on the stage ahead of him, a suspicion which is confirmed when a spotlight flares into life – lighting up the platform’s contents as Edward Nygma strides into view.

He pauses before the display – a rotund fellow, gagged and strapped to a vintage steel operating table – and turns to face Oswald. Edward is wearing a crisp, tailored white suit, and a shit-eating grin.

“Oswald,” he beams. “I’m so glad you came.”

Oswald waits a beat, ready for the proverbial “other shoe” to hit the floor. He’s known Ed too long now, and been put through too many of his schemes, to expect anything else. But as he studies Ed’s face – absent, it seems, of all trace of mischief and misdeed, he soon realises that Edward isn’t about to pull one over on him after all.

Edward is fucking proud.

“Forgive me for intruding, my friend. You’re clearly busy,” says Oswald, cautiously joining his companion on stage and eyeing the struggling quarry, along with a second, smaller table full of glistening surgical tools.

“Don’t tell me you don’t recognise this fine gentleman?” Ed replies, raising one eyebrow and trying, and failing, to suppress a giggle.

Oswald furrows his brow and leans in for a closer look.  _ Just some fat bastard, _ he thinks.  _ So what? _ He nearly says as much to Ed, but the pithy retort dies on his tongue when realisation hits – like an all-too-familiar kick to the ribs. Peering into the man’s panic-stricken, grey eyes, he notices – in the right iris, a narrow streak of dark brown.

“Sectoral heterochromia,” Ed supplies, helpfully. “Only one percent of the human population has such a mutation.”

_ “How’s your mom, Oswank?” _

“Chris Stapleson,” Oswald whispers, dumbfounded. “But how?”

“You talk in your sleep,” states Edward, matter-of-factly. “The name ‘Malonzo’ was mentioned repeatedly. You sounded quite troubled. I decided to perform a little investigation... I won’t go into the details, suffice to say that Mr. Malonzo is no longer with us. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy – he just dropped dead, at twenty-six! It’s quite rare. Fascinating, really.”

Chris Stapleson. Tallest and fattest of the Malonzo crowd. Oswald shudders as he recalls the countless occasions where this fellow’s substantial weight had been the only thing preventing him from fleeing black eyes, and bruised ribs.

“It was simply a matter of breaking into your high school,” Edward declares, looking particularly delighted with himself. “Personnel files, yearbooks. Just one big puzzle – which of course, led me to Mr. Stapleson here.” He punctuates the end of this sentence by gently patting the victim’s cheeks, as if rousing him from slumber.

“It really is a damn shame Mr. Malonzo shuffled off this mortal coil so early,” Ed continues, dreamily. “But I’d hoped Mr. Stapleson would be the next best thing. His brother is still at large, of course. I thought perhaps we could tackle him together.”

“It could be like a date,” he adds, sheepishly.

“I... he’s... Ed...” Oswald begins, before shaking his head and snapping out of his reverie. “Wait one moment. Today – the date. How did you know I’d-”

“Take so long to open my gift?” Edward smirks, drawing himself close to Oswald until their lips are all but touching. “My friend, I’d like to believe I know you  _ very _ well, by now.”

“You motherfucker,” Oswald breathes, licking his lips as he glares into Ed’s cold, brown eyes.

Edward pauses, briefly, seemingly inhaling Oswald’s scent as they regard one another – nose to nose with barely a sliver of light between them. “Quite,” he grins, stepping back and clapping his hands together with childlike glee. “So, Oswald. How would you like to perform your retribution?”

So many options – it’s almost impossible to choose. Oswald takes a moment to consider the elaborate production that Edward has so carefully orchestrated, struck with how much care he’s taken, simply to please him – even dressing in his finest suit.  _ Ever the showman, _ Oswald thinks, wryly.

It’s then that Oswald considers an alternate option. He wants to see that suit soaked with blood – stained, immutably, as Oswald has been since their first dalliance. He wants to see every splatter and every spray – to enjoy this grand show to its fullest.

“I think I’d prefer to watch what you can do, Ed.”

A look of surprise flits across Ed’s face, just briefly, before a sinister grin lights his sharp features. “With pleasure.”

Oswald watches, transfixed, as Edward goes to work. He takes to pacing the floor, looking for exactly the right spot from which to view the impending carnage, as the taller man regards his victim the way an artist considers a blank canvas. Ed hums, slender fingers dancing over the table full of implements – scalpels and knives and saws, all lined up neatly like a mouth full of gleaming, eager teeth – before finally selecting the electric bone saw.

The tool whines to life, and Oswald finds himself almost tipsy with glee. How many miserable years had he suffered at the hands of Garry Malonzo and the vile Stapleson brothers? How many bruises had he tried to hide from Mother? How many tears had she dried when he failed?

Oswald had sworn once, in a fit of teenage angst, that someday he would make them pay. If not for what they’d done to him, then for what they’d done to Mother. For making her worry. For making her sad. For the repugnant lies they’d uttered. No, Mother’s tears would not go unavenged.

Now, after nearly two decades of unfailing patience, retribution was at hand – bound and gagged and put on glorious display, courtesy of one Edward Nygma. Oswald’s only regret was that a coronary had given Malonzo the mercy of a quick death. But Chris Stapleson, as Ed had astutely suggested, was indeed the next best thing. And he would pay for all their sins.

The whirring blade draws ever closer to Chris’ broad bicep, and Oswald’s buzz has evolved into a full-blown state of emotional drunkenness. But just before the saw splits plump, pink skin, Ed pauses to look up at Oswald.

“Would you like to hear him scream?”

“Oh,  _ yes,” _ Oswald leers, eyeing his former tormentor with a savage, lethal gaze.

Ed rips away the tape covering Chris’ mouth with somewhat of a flourish, and sets immediately to work. The whining of the saw is soon drowned out completely by howls of agony, as metal hits yielding flesh, and not-so-yielding bone – the resulting splashback covering Edward’s pristine white suit in a grisly display somewhat akin to abstract expressionist art.

Blood flies through the air, lightly spraying Edward’s face and coating his glasses – which he wipes messily with one hand, grinning all the while as he continues his back-alley amputation.

The cacophonous din is soon drowned out, however, by the pulse pounding in Oswald’s own ears. The sight of Edward, cackling wildly as he cuts through the strap of leather binding Chris’ arm – which results in said limb hitting the floor with a resounding thud – sweating, devilishly murderous and coated in the blood of his enemy, is more than just retribution. It is, quite frankly, the most arousing spectacle Oswald has ever been privy to.

And Oswald, cock twitching as a single crimson droplet trickles down Ed’s chin, simply cannot stand by and let the moment pass.

He kneels, in the viscous pool gathering at Edward’s feet, and sets to his own task, fumbling with the zipper as he struggles to loose Ed’s cock from his pants. It takes more effort than it should – his hands are actually fucking shaking with excitement – but soon enough Ed’s significant length is his.

It’s abundantly clear that Edward is as aroused by the exhibition as Oswald, though he continues his butchery as though all of it – the stage, the mutilated and now, semi-conscious hostage, the man pawing at his dick – were oh so routine.

Slightly annoyed by this seeming indifference, Oswald sees it as a challenge, and one he meets with gusto. He gives the head of Ed’s thick cock a few teasing flicks of his tongue before swallowing him deep – suddenly taken with the idea of balls smacking against his chin – and groping feverishly at Ed’s ass.

The wail of the saw cuts off suddenly, overtaken by a guttural groan from Edward, and Oswald wells with smug satisfaction at having won this small victory.

“You’re a fucking filthy cunt, Oswald,” Ed murmurs. “Aren’t you.”

There’s a sharp tug as Edward grabs him by the hair, and Oswald can only moan in agreement around the dick in his mouth. But that isn’t quite good enough for Ed. The taller man jerks him off his cock, leaving a trail of saliva glistening on Oswald’s chin, and forces his gaze upward.

As Oswald takes in all six feet of Edward Nygma – hair tousled and dripping with sweat, glasses perched on the end of his perfectly sculpted nose, and blood marring every inch of that immaculate suit – he cannot help but suppress a shudder. Ed looks wholly terrifying, like some gruesome ghoul from a nightmare come to life – and Oswald has never wanted him more.

“Say it,” Ed demands.

“I- I’m a filthy cunt,” Oswald sputters, red-faced, and desperate to return to Ed’s cock.

“And what do you want right now?”

What Oswald wants is Ed’s cock so deep down his throat that he fears he’ll choke on it. He wants to run his tongue along every ridge, to inhale the scent of Edward as he does, to savour the taste when Ed finally comes.

Saying those things aloud feels coarse and vulgar, but then, everything he’s done with Ed on this little sojourn of theirs has been. And, in weighing a moment’s unease against the pleasure to come, the scales tip – hard and fast – in favour of gratification. It’s not about what he wants – it’s what he  _ needs. _

“I want your fat cock back in my mouth right now,  _ Nygma,”  _ Oswald hisses, perhaps a little more petulantly than he intended, but eager, above all else, to have his mouth fucked until his eyes watered and his jaw begged for mercy.

“Then fucking take it. And touch yourself while you’re at it. I want to hear you enjoying it like the whore you are.”

Oswald does not need telling twice. With all manner of haste, and some sense of relief, he frees his own painfully hard cock from its confines, groaning as he indulges in a few tantalising strokes before swallowing Ed down to the balls.

The bone saw hums into life once more, as Edward, with remarkable resolve, continues his dismemberment – albeit with a little less accuracy this time.

Chris Stapleson regains some semblance of consciousness as Ed saws roughly into his thigh, and his tormented wails are punctuated by the vulgar vocalisations escaping Edward’s lips.

There’s no question now about how much Ed wants this. He bucks his hips wildly, hammering the back of Oswald’s throat in an unrelenting staccato of thrusts that make Oswald feel like a rag doll being tossed about in a hurricane, and through it all – Ed continues his mutilation – showering the pair of them in a grisly deluge.

He’s sore. His knees burn. His jaw aches. Oswald feels thoroughly used and utterly impure, and fuck if that doesn’t send him hurtling ever closer to his release.

The anguished screams of their honoured guest die away as Edward hits his climax, spurting thick and sticky and hot in Oswald’s mouth. And the shorter man greedily swallows him – every single drop.

A few frenzied strokes of his own cock, and Oswald finishes, too, his seed spilling hard over his hand and onto Ed’s shoes, just as Chris’ severed leg drops to the floor with an unceremonious  _ thunk. _

Edward strokes the back of Oswald’s head and sighs with contentment before helping him to his feet, the gore around them all but forgotten as they share an intimate moment in each other’s arms.

“Well,” Ed finally begins. “After I finish making our friend nice and portable, I think I’d rather like some sleep. Shall we go back to your place?”

Oswald grins. “I’d like that.”

****

They’d slept.

In Oswald’s dingy motel room, beneath the threadbare sheets on the lumpy double bed, they’d slept. Exhausted and content, limbs intertwined and breathing deeply, they’d slept.

And Edward had woken up alone.

He sits bolt upright, already at full panic before he’s even rubbed the sleep from his eyes. A rational mind wouldn’t immediately presume the worst. There are any number of reasons Oswald could be gone. He needed more cigarettes. He needed more wine. But each reason crumbles as Ed scans the room. A full pack of cigarettes on top of the television. An unopened bottle of wine on the bedside table. Oswald’s clothes left in exactly the same spot as the night before.

No.

Ed’s mouth goes dry, and he fights the bile rising in his throat. Without even thinking, he’s fumbling for his glasses, picking up his clothes, tying his shoes. He knows what has happened to Oswald, and – what’s more, he knows why.

Ed had left a clue.

He couldn’t help it, really. The insatiable urge to gloat, to taunt, to proclaim his superiority – even in the smallest and most subtle of ways – was an itch he never could ignore.

And now it had cost him his... It had cost him Oswald.

_ “Way to go, dummy.” _

“Not you again,” Ed mutters, casting a sidelong glare towards the bathroom mirror. “I don’t have time for your meddling. Not now.”

_ “But you need it, if you’re going to rescue your feathered friend. I’m the only one with a cool head here. I’m the one that can fix your little fuck-up. Seriously, you had to leave a clue? It’s like you don’t learn anything.” _

 

It had seemed, to Edward, innocuous enough.

_ ‘People always clap for the wrong things.’ _

A simple quote, from the novel  _ The Catcher in the Rye,  _ had been Oswald’s high school yearbook motto. Edward had chuckled at seeing it penned below a photo of Oswald’s thirteen-year-old self, and had quite frankly, cackled, when he’d left a dog-eared copy of said novel in Chris Stapleson’s wake.

 

_ “You sure picked a great night to sleep so heavily. I hope the dream was worth it. Idiot.” _

“Be quiet. I have to think.”

_ “Because we have all the time in the world.” _

“How could he have figured out my clue? There’s no way. That inerudite fool and his brother are the very definition of imbecile.”

_ “Guess he was smarter than you thought, huh? You better find him, and you better find him fast.” _

 

As it happens, Asa Stapleson wasn’t smart at all. Unbeknownst to Edward, he and his brother simply hadn’t changed a day since high school. Oftentimes they’d watch the game, drink a beer, and gloat about the many life lessons they’d taught that skinny little shit Cobblepot. Hilarity would inevitably reach its peak once one of them produced an old yearbook.

“Look at this little faggot,” they’d crow. “Deserved everything he got.”

And so, when Asa arrived at his brother’s apartment to find his sibling missing, and what appeared to be the calling card of one “skinny little shit” Cobblepot, it didn’t take him long to track the former king of Gotham down. Oswald’s life, was of course, well documented.

A simple chloroform rag to the face ensured that Oswald didn’t wake up anytime soon, and with a glare of utmost contempt at the man’s sleeping bedfellow as he exited, the second Stapleson brother claimed his prize.

He’d taken Oswald back to his home, tied him to a chair, beaten him until his pale features were barely recognisable, only to have Oswald laugh in his face at his repeated mantra of: “Where. Is. My. Brother?”

In a fit of blind rage, he’d grabbed the nearest implement he could find – a Phillips head screwdriver, and plunged it deep into Oswald’s stomach. He knew Oswald was of no use to him dead, but perhaps the little bird would sing after significant blood loss.

As Oswald Cobblepot slipped heavily out of consciousness, a desperate and frustrated Asa Stapleson took a seat opposite him, held his head in his hands, and wept.

Right before Edward slit his throat.

****

Beaten, bound to a folding chair, and bleeding profusely from the gut, Oswald is frighteningly still – slumped awkwardly in his seat, and held upright by only a crude knot of nylon rope. There’s no time to really assess the extent of his injuries, though the blackened eyes and swollen nose leave little to the imagination. Edward is simply glad to feel a pulse – faint, irregular – but, most importantly,  _ there. _

“Stay with me, Ozzie,” Ed pleads, quickly cutting away the rope and gingerly scooping the man up in his arms.

“Stay with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We, uhhh, BYE.
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)


	5. Hysteria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Nygma will see you now.

One must always be thankful for small mercies. Edward Nygma, for example, was extremely thankful for the fact that Asa Stapleson – oafish as he was – had by some miracle, not punctured any of Oswald’s vital organs.

Oswald remained unresponsive following the drive back to Ed’s apartment, however. Despite Edward’s attempts to stem the bleeding by means of a makeshift dressing comprising of his own shirt and belt, he was haemorrhaging at an alarming rate, his pulse was dangerously low, and the wound itself looked prone to infection.

The second small mercy Edward is thankful for, as he gingerly lies Oswald down on his bed, cuts away the man’s blood-soaked clothes and carefully fills a syringe with a dilution containing 50mg/ml ketamine, is his wide array of pilfered medical supplies.

And now, for the second time during the tenure of their relationship, it was time to play doctor.

****

_ “When you’re smiling, when you’re smiling... _

_ The whole world smiles with you.” _

There are very few things on this God-forsaken planet that warm Oswald’s heart quite as much as the sound of his beloved mother singing. Tonight is a very special night. Tonight is opening night, of his very own club.

He surveys his surroundings, hordes of Gotham’s elite have come out in droves to watch the show – to appreciate the unmitigated talent of Gertrud Kapelput. They fill every table, chatting and laughing and drinking and smoking. Oswald swells with pride as he leans back in his seat, closes his eyes and lets the music wash over him.

_ “When you’re laughing, when you’re laughing... _

_ The sun comes shining through.” _

“Hell of a show, isn’t it?” comes a muffled, yet, strikingly familiar voice to his left.

Oswald reluctantly opens his eyes, to find himself practically alone. Mother is gone; the stage before him is completely empty; there are no bar staff and no tables full of eager patrons. Perplexed, he turns to face the source of the vocalisation, and feels a mixture of familiarity and shock.

He’s wearing an exquisitely tailored three-piece plum suit, a pale grey shirt and a fine polka-dot silk tie. His face is completely obscured by the fact that he’s wearing a small burlap sack over his head, secured by a length of electrical tape around the mouth area.

This time though, he’s not bound to a chair. He’s applauding the now empty stage, nodding his head in vehement approval.

“You’re dead,” Oswald frowns.

“So are you,” replies Mr. Leonard.

****

Close, but not quite.

“Patient is presenting with an elevated heart rate,” Edward mutters, to no one in particular. “Not quite tachycardia... yet. Breathing is shallow-”

_ Too shallow. _

“But stable.”

Blood-soaked rags are strewn about the place – casualties of an ongoing war. Ed sets to work cleaning the gaping trauma – it’s worryingly deep, and still bleeding profusely.

“I’m proceeding to irrigate the wound with sodium chloride solution,” he continues. “Patient remains stable.”

Edward finds that referring to Oswald in such a clinical manner not only aids his concentration, but it helps to detach his mind from the fact that he’s very close to losing the only thing he actually cares about.

It’s going to be a long night.

****

Oswald has been here before. Stained glass, wooden pews, yet... are they wooden? No. They’re wrong somehow, they’re fake.

_ They’re cardboard. _

The delicate stained glass is rippling gently, billowing against some unseen breeze.

It’s painted on a cloth backdrop.

Realisation hits Oswald like a kick in the teeth as he squints his eyes to evaluate his surroundings. He’s on stage. He’s on stage in his own fucking club.

“This ought to be fun,” comes the muffled voice of Mr. Leonard, from the adjacent pew.

“Not again,” Oswald sighs, as a distressingly familiar robed figure enters. Undeterred this time, Oswald leaves his seat, and joins the priest at the front of the church – centre-stage left – the malevolence of his previous incarnation all but forgotten.

“I thought I’d seen the last of you,” Oswald hisses.

A glimmer of movement catches his eye, and it’s then that Oswald notices what the priest is carrying. It writhes and shimmers in his hands, its tongue darting in and out of its mouth, small, shining black eyes staring fixedly at Oswald.

_ “Morelia boeleni,”  _ Father Edward supplies. “Boelen’s python. He’s beautiful, is he not?”

“He must be hungry,” says Oswald, eyeing the beast with curiosity, as it calmly proceeds to devour its own tail.

“Oh, he does that all the time,” Ed smiles. “It makes sense, I assure you.”

****

The human body is a miraculous structure. Resilient far beyond appearances and able to withstand prodigious amounts of punishment; even the most seemingly horrifying traumas can be overcome.

At least, that’s what Edward repeats to himself as he assesses the vast hole in his friend’s stomach.

“The best method for closing a wound such as yours, Oswald, is a purse-string suture,” Ed calmly explains to his unconscious patient. “Not an easy stitch to master, but lucky for us, I’ve had years of free time to learn.”

He measures and cuts a length of 3-0 Monocryl and, with as steady a hand as he can manage under such duress, proceeds to weave the filament in and out of Oswald’s skin. The fine thread slips through Oswald’s delicate flesh with ease, and before long, Ed is able to pull the jagged edges back together.

He repeats the tedious task for all of Oswald’s lacerations, with appropriate stitching – and accompanying explanations behind the methodology – for each. When the last one is finally shut, the endless stream of red staunched at last, Edward lets out a weary breath and squeezes Oswald’s cold hand.

“Stay with me, Oz.”

****

He’s on his hands and knees, practically making out with a pair of elegantly crafted Giuseppe Zanotti stiletto-heeled shoes. The patent leather is smooth under his tongue – it smells good – hell, it  _ feels _ good.

_ Fish Mooney, _ he thinks.  _ You had your redeeming qualities. _

“You do realise,” begin the muted tones of Mr. Leonard, from somewhere behind him, “you were never going to turn out any differently.”

_ Maybe not. _

“Fuck, Oz,” an accented, masculine voice grunts from above.

_ It’s not Fish. _

“You look so fuckin’ pretty on your knees.”

Oswald scrambles to his feet and finds himself face to face with the immaculately suited Salvatore Maroni. He looks good in heels, Oswald notes.

The stage is set to resemble the log cabin they once visited together – the painted backdrop is an intricate display of rustic brickwork, complete with a delicately illustrated log fire. Dotted about the place are wall-mounted deer heads, who are seemingly engrossed in the show.

Sal is seated on a tiny, wicker chair, which gives him the appearance of being immeasurably larger than he actually is – and he’s already a big guy. Deceptively quick, too.

“I didn’t say you could stand, you little rat-bastard,” Sal drawls, unzipping his pants to produce what is, quite frankly, the largest cock Oswald has ever seen. “Get back down there and take what I got for ya.”

****

“Wound cleaned and stitched. Check.”

“Lacerations tended to. Check.”

“One administration dose, followed by one maintenance dose denotes that the patient should regain consciousness in around,” Ed glances at his watch, “ten minutes.”

He sets to dressing the wound with meticulous precision, pausing once to survey his handiwork, before resignedly taking a seat beside the bed.

“At least,” Edward begins, shedding the regimented objectivity of his previous demeanour as he gently mops Oswald’s clammy forehead, “at least we killed him together, right?”

****

It’s cold. No, it’s fucking  _ freezing.  _ A chill air is blowing in from somewhere, somehow. Oswald can’t be sure – seeing as he’s evidently still part of some ludicrous theatrical production. Perhaps there’s a fan.

The curtained backdrop this time is a faded brick wall – it’s dark, dismal, unfamiliar. To his left there’s a cutout standee of a large dumpster, and directly in front of him is Edward Nygma, wearing a long, black overcoat and a predatory smirk.

Oswald is on his knees. His hands are filthy and his wrists are bound with what appears to be a long strip of black leather. He’s crawling now, crawling towards Edward across the grimy terrain. He’s feeling... Anger? Arousal? Both?

When was this? This is wrong. This is-

“Whoops,” interjects Mr. Leonard, before Oswald can ruminate on the scenario any longer. “Wrong tableau.”

****

Edward has never been one for sitting idle, and with Oswald still under the anaesthetic, he endeavours to busy himself with other tasks.

The spent surgical dressings, littering the floor like macabre confetti, are picked up and disposed of. The medical supplies are gathered and stowed away, hopefully not to be used again for quite some time. A fresh pair of pyjamas is laid out, and extra pillows procured.

And lastly, Ed prepares Oswald a sandwich.

“With spicy mustard,” he says, rejoining Oswald’s bedside, “just the way you like it.”

****

Another familiar setting.

Stage lights bathe the room in luminous emerald, and Oswald immediately identifies the space as a faithful re-creation of Ed’s apartment.

Everything is here – the undulating butcher’s block, the upright piano, the ugly green sofa. Even the bank of windows on the far wall (with a postcard-perfect Gotham skyline peeking through, of course). And in the midst of it all, Edward.

He’s dressed in pyjamas, hair uncharacteristically mussed – falling over his forehead in a flourish of rich brown curls. He’s been in bed, Oswald deduces. And he’s… Worried? Afraid? Enraged? A war of emotion plays across the man’s face as he strides ever closer, long legs making short work of the distance between them.

Oswald is struck with an inexplicable urge to flee.

He turns, clawing at the painted-on door handle, remembering too late that it’s no more than a useless prop. Edward grabs and spins him, pinning Oswald against the makeshift wall and clamping a large hand over his mouth.

“You know, this is how he killed her,” Mr. Leonard supplies, leaning casually against the panel, nonplussed by the struggle beside him.

_ Who? _ Oswald thinks frantically, before remembering Ed’s impassioned dissertation on his former flame’s demise. Ah, yes. Kringle.

Oswald’s pale eyes widen as Edward’s other hand begins to paw at his clothing, insistently tugging and pulling and yanking until Oswald’s pants are puddled at his ankles.

_ But he didn’t do this, _ Oswald thinks, moaning into Ed’s overlarge palm when the man begins to roughly stroke his cock.

Oswald closes his eyes and ceases his struggling, content to let this go on for however long it will.

Is this – all of this – another of Ed’s games? Oswald hardly even cares.

It feels so fucking good, and he’s so damn close. Just a couple more strokes.

_ Yes, just like that. Fuck, yes. Just like- _

****

Edward levies a mournful glance at the clock on his bedside table, then presses his forefingers against Oswald’s wrist, his frown deepening as he does. No change. Still.

_ Fuck. _

Oswald hasn’t moved or groaned or so much as fluttered an eyelash since the first administration of anaesthetic. He should be coming around now. Any time. Any fucking time.

_ Please. _

Ed takes his pulse again. It becomes a compulsion – check the clock, check Oswald’s pulse, check his pupils. Wait.

Ten minutes pass.

Then twenty.

As twenty bleeds into half an hour, Edward adds pacing to his routine.

“Why aren’t you waking up?” he murmurs, hoping – however foolishly – that Oswald will sit up and grumble some trenchant retort.

_ Try something else. _

“There is nothing else!” he roars, hurling the bedside timepiece across the room at some unseen enemy. “Don’t you think I’ve tried everything?”

He sinks back into his chair and buries his head in his hands. God, how he wishes there were something else. Anything that would definitively turn the tide in their favour. But he’s done everything. All he can do now is wait, and prepare for the inevitable.

That this is a battle he’s going to lose.

“Please, Ozzie,” he whispers fervently, his lips lightly brushing his lover’s damp forehead in an almost prayer-like kiss, “I need you.”

****

Oswald finds himself shivering against some manufactured breeze once more, awash with anger and standing next to a flimsy Buick-shaped cutout on what is apparently supposed to be a quiet Gotham street.

He’s holding an umbrella – or, rather, wielding it, with a bloodied and bewildered Edward Nygma sprawled at his feet. Ed glowers up at him from behind a curtain of dishevelled hair, a malicious grin playing at the corner of his lips.

Was there a scuffle? When was this?

And is that… a tooth?

Whatever this is, Oswald is definitely on board. But before he can really begin to enjoy the life-size diorama before him, Mr. Leonard’s muffled voice cuts through the quiet.

“Apologies. Incorrect again. I’ll be having words with the directors.”

****

_ Why did you have to use ketamine? _

“Because it doesn’t suppress the breathing quite as much as other anaesthesia. We don’t  _ have _ a fucking ventilator. This... is the best we could do. The best  _ I _ could do.  _ Fuck.” _

****

He’s on his hands and knees again, this time in the centre of a darkened, empty stage. There’s no elaborate backdrop, no cardboard furniture, no meticulously crafted vignette to dissect and no ghosts from his past.

In fact, everything seems to be stripped bare – Oswald included.

He barely has time to consider his latest surroundings when a spotlight flares to life, revealing Edward Nygma, impossibly tall in an immaculate white suit, standing next to... himself?

That can’t be right.

“Didn’t you know there’s two of him?” a bemused Mr. Leonard asks.

They appear to be arguing over something, and though he cannot hear what they’re saying, the sidelong glances make it apparent that Oswald is the cause of their row.

After a protracted back and forth, the Edwards approach, striding in unison, and leer down at their quarry.

“We’ve decided,” says the white-suited Ed, “we don’t want to take turns.”

“We’re going to share,” the second Ed grins.

Oswald isn’t certain what to make of this, and Mr. Leonard’s offstage chuckle does little to reassure him. “Oh, this should be good,” the muffled voice says.

The Edwards remove each other’s clothing with great fanfare, until they too are stark naked beneath the searing stage lights. Oswald is left to wonder just what is to happen next – and what his role in this passion play might be – when one of the men pulls the other into a deep, lingering kiss.

Mr. Leonard was right – this is one hell of a show.

Their frenzied groping quickly devolves into stroking each other’s thick, pink cocks – and Oswald cannot help but feel neglected as his own erection hangs hard and untouched between his legs.

Thankfully, his frustration is short-lived. They turn then, Ed-number-one and Ed-number-two, and descend upon him together, like ravenous crows before an exquisitely prepared feast. One of them disappears from view, and Oswald barely has time to register the ongoing chain of events before Edward – one of the Edwards is standing before him, glistening cock in hand.

“Open up,” he grins.

Oswald, seemingly having no choice in the matter – and quite frankly, not wishing to have any choice in the matter – does just that.

There’s no delicate foreplay, no tongue dancing over smooth pink flesh – Ed fills his eager mouth with a groan, a salacious smirk on his lips and his dark eyes fluttering shut, as the other Ed takes him roughly from behind.

It should hurt – but it doesn’t. However, the delicious fullness he’s experiencing from both ends – balls slapping against his own, balls slapping against his chin – is far more than Oswald can possibly bear. He moans around the cock in his mouth, each thrust from behind forcing him to take it in even deeper.

In the throes of passion, Edward has never been one for keeping quiet. That discord is now doubled; they grunt, they curse. They berate Oswald as they slam into him – either end – hard and fast, hard and fast.

They begin to chant some obscene mantra, raucous and incoherent at first, yet soon becoming intelligible; it reverberates around the empty stage, and penetrates deep into Oswald’s cerebrum.

“Come for us, Ozzie.”

“Come on, Ozzie!”

“Come, Ozzie.”

“Come-”

********

“Come on, Ozzie, come on!”

This, Ed supposes, is it. It’s funny, really. He’s witnessed death – he’s  _ enjoyed _ death – by his own hands and the hands of others. It’s never mattered. Pawns, all of them. Tiny, insignificant threads woven together to produce the scintillating grand tapestry that is Edward Nygma.

Yet his bedside vigil was soon to become a funeral – and the only person to blame was himself.

He throws aside his glasses and presses his eyelids with the tips of his fingers to try and stem the flow of tears, but he can’t.

This matters.

Oswald matters.

********

“I really think,” says Oswald, as he tentatively begins to peel away the electrical tape covering his companion’s mouth, “that it’s about time you showed me who you are.”

There’s more tape than there appeared to be – it falls to the floor in ribbons – as Oswald diligently pulls it away. Soon enough though, the only thing separating him from knowing – from knowing once and for all, is a small, brown burlap sack.

He lifts it with shaking hands, and Mr. Leonard is beautiful under there – a bright, white grin with far more teeth than is absolutely necessary, an impeccably shaped nose, cheekbones you could slice bread with, and deep, expressive brown eyes.

He’s...

He’s...

He’s Edward Nygma.

“It’s time for you to go back,” Ed whispers.

****

So wrapped up in his grief, Edward doesn’t notice at first. Oswald stirs ever-so-slightly, his eyelashes fluttering as he begins to open his bleary eyes. His mouth feels as if he’s been chowing down on cardboard, and his head like he’s just endured ten rounds in a boxing ring.

“I think I preferred the twins,” he mutters.  _ “Ouch.” _

“Oswald?”

There are very few things on this God-forsaken planet that truly make Edward Nygma happy. A stimulating puzzle, a clever pun, a particularly inventive method of delivering a well-deserved death. But not a single one of these things could ever hold a candle to Oswald’s pale, bloodshot eyes staring into his own.

He leaps from his seat to settle gently next to Oswald on the bed, ever mindful of the pain he must be feeling, and tenderly takes Oswald’s hand in his own.

“I... I thought I lost you, and I-” His voice breaks then, a mixture of fear and relief and exhaustion all pouring out at once. The tears run freely now, hot and wet down his cheeks, but Ed hardly cares. Oswald is alive. That’s all that matters. That’s all that will ever matter.

“You cannot ever leave me again, Oz. Never,” he whispers. “Because without you, this is...”

Edward takes a shuddering breath and wipes at his eyes, knowing with certainty what he wants to say. What he has to say.

_ You’re my soulmate, Oswald. And I love you. _

The words remain unsaid, however, as Ed dolefully realises that Oswald will likely remember little of this.  _ But that’s a good thing,  _ he thinks. And there will be time enough for sentiment – so much more time.

Just not now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you enjoyed space-coyote Leonard as much as we did.  
> A couple of these tableaux were blatant nods to our other respective works: [New Obsession](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5116106?view_full_work=true) and [Checkmate](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4589808?view_full_work=true), because we’re just those sorts of assholes. :)
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)


	6. Novocaine for the Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you give to the man who has nothing?

Edward Nygma’s apartment was amiable enough, and a damn sight more agreeable than Oswald’s previous lodgings at the motel. As he recovered from his traumatic brush with death, Oswald once again found himself becoming accustomed to its reassuringly familiar idiosyncratic decor, its pulsing green neon hue, and its inordinately soft mattress – which he had once likened to sleeping in pudding.

Edward was the perfect host, and, as it transpired, one hell of a cook.

Much to Oswald’s chagrin, Ed was also the perfect gentleman. They shared the inordinately soft mattress – but for nothing more than simply sleeping. As the days passed by and Oswald’s wounds healed, Edward seemed to spend more and more time away – often collapsing into bed next to Oswald long after Oswald had given up hope of him returning at any sort of reasonable hour.

Oswald hoped it was simply business keeping Ed at bay, and while he never felt unwelcome in his new abode, there was undoubtedly something in the air between them – something unsaid – which hung like a thick fog and lingered just out of reach of explanation.

As Oswald recovered in both body and spirit, his impatience with Ed’s seeming detachment grew. He longed for Edward’s touch, yearned for his flavour; he ached inside and out at this complete lack of contact. As his physical wounds mended to barely more than scrapes and bruises, he found himself hungering for more – for Edward to mark him as his own. Hell, for Ed to just do  _ something  _ to show Oswald that he was still wanted. And furthermore to his apparent indifference – Edward’s demeanour suggested that he was up to something. What exactly, Oswald couldn’t be sure.

Against his better judgement (as was the norm since this particular facet of their relationship had begun), Oswald fancied that perhaps Ed was planning another game, and so as each day passed he waited for Edward to unveil his plan – to pull the tablecloth from under Oswald with ostentatious glee as Oswald once more became his willing puppet.

As it happened, Oswald was right. But it wasn’t a game Edward was planning this time. It was a gift.

****

The fact of the matter was, Ed’s perceived apathy was borne not from a lack of interest in his companion – but rather, from too much. Oswald’s ordeal had set something off in Edward – exposed feelings that he now wrestled with day in and day out, like a recovering alcoholic toying with the idea of just  _ one final drink _ to get them through the next twenty-four hours. There were so many things he wanted to express to Oswald, but words alone never felt like enough. Words were cheap. Words could be disingenuous; they could be twisted and misinterpreted. And Edward was far too familiar with the latter.

Ed deduced that what he needed was a gesture – an offering so monumental that it could never be construed as anything other than an act of purest devotion – and most importantly – it needed to be something that was quintessentially  _ Edward Nygma. _

****

There had been no perplexing riddle, no parcel and no note. Edward had simply asked Oswald to dress smartly and accompany him out for the evening. It was as if – for all intents and purposes – they were going on a date.

****

And thus, Oswald Cobblepot finds himself gazing once again from the balcony over the newly refurbished sumptuousness and splendour of his very own club, beaming at the congregation of smiling and high-spirited patrons below – all courtesy of Edward Nygma.

The neon umbrella signage is vibrant against the dimly lit interior, the bar staff are buzzing to and fro mixing everything from mojitos to manhattans.

The stage, with its ultramarine padded backdrop, hosts a three-piece band of apparent delinquents sporting matching outfits of distressed denim, who are performing a more than adequate cover of the Ramones’ “Blitzkrieg Bop”.

The furnishings – tables, chairs, even Oswald’s quirky umbrella-shaped lamp shades and penguin cocktail stick holders – are all present, and everything, including the walls and floor – seems to shimmer slightly – as if wrapped in plastic. Oswald squints his eyes and smirks – it’s highly possible that Edward was simply too eager to reveal Oswald’s prize – or perhaps it’s merely a testament to Ed’s meticulous cleanliness. Knowing Edward’s methodology, Oswald suspects the latter. Regardless, it gives the room a somewhat celestial sheen.

It’s the very picture of perfection – better than Oswald could have dreamed. He chuckles at the thought, a hollow sound lost amid the din of music and merriment, and squeezes the balcony railing as he recalls the vivid dreams that hounded his fitful recovery. Certainly better than he’d dreamed. 

It feels like a rebirth of sorts. If asked, Oswald would say he never once doubted he would rise from the choking ash that had come so close to snuffing him out entirely. After all, he’s Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, and the pinnacle of Gotham’s crime empire is where he belongs. But in truth, while Theo Galavan and Arkham Asylum had been his judge and jury, his executioner had unquestionably been the demise of his beloved mother. Because of this, a moment of cancerous self-doubt had wormed its way into his thoughts on more than one occasion since her departure.

But at every precipitous juncture, every time Oswald had faltered – Edward had been there. His particular brand of assistance – while utterly vexatious and, at times, downright enraging – was precisely the challenge Oswald had needed to pick him up, shake him firmly by the shoulders and say,  _ “This is who you are”. _

And this was his reward.

Unable to stem the smile spreading across his lips, Oswald turns to face his benefactor. Dressed in an emerald green pinstripe suit, with his dark hair immaculately slicked in place and a shit-eating grin he can hardly contain, Ed practically oozes smugness. Oswald has seen this look before – funnily enough, bathed in blue on stage in this very location – on the occasion of Chris Stapleson’s grisly dismembering. A familiar thrill swells in Oswald’s stomach as he remembers the sonorous thud of limbs and the dissonant wail of victim and bone saw.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Ed,” Oswald beams. “Truly.”

“I’m so glad you approve,” Edward replies, his dark eyes twinkling. “Granted, it’s not quite your previous sovereignty, but it’s a start.”

“It’s perfect,” says Oswald. “But how on earth could you afford all of this? The last time I checked, you were in it for the kill, not the money.”

“And you’d be categorically correct with that assumption.” Ed smiles dreamily, evidently recounting just how much he enjoys being  _ in it for the kill. _

“So how on earth...?”

“Let’s just say I had some funding set aside for a rainy day,” Edward giggles, with a pointed glance at the closest neon umbrella.

That is apparently all Edward Nygma deems it necessary to share, and they set to walking about the place, soaking up the atmosphere, meeting and greeting. Occasionally Oswald feels the slightest flicker of familiarity – the way an old wound might twinge when faced with its maker – but he brushes it aside. He has, after all, met countless people during his lifetime, and indeed a great many of those on the course of his ascent to the apex of Gotham’s underworld. It would stand to reason that he’s encountered a few of these faces before.

Soon enough though, drinks in hand, Ed suggests that they retreat back to the balcony – it does, after all, give a stunning view of their surroundings. Edward locks the stairwell door behind them with a mischievous grin. “VIPs only,” he says, simply.

They resume their original positions, practically presiding over the rambunctious gathering downstairs. Oswald lights a cigarette, inhales deeply and exhales slowly, content to just observe as the wispy fingers of thin blue smoke seem to paw and grab at the patrons beneath them. It’s a heady feeling – intoxicating even. Oswald has spent quite some time as of late at his absolute lowest, and the sense of freedom Ed has bequeathed upon him tonight is without question the finest he’s felt since heaving Fish Mooney into Gotham’s murky waters.

As the band below breaks into a strident rendition of “Ever Fallen in Love” by the Buzzcocks, Edward, as if on cue, turns to face his companion and poses a question Oswald is entirely unprepared for.

“So, Ozzie, are you ready for your gift?” Ed claps his hands together with malevolent glee, his eyes – wide, knowing and impossibly black – sparkling with every turn of the mirror ball beside them. 

“I’m not certain I understand,” Oswald says, glancing from Edward to the revellers and back again. “I thought this place was my gift.”

Edward can no longer suppress his amusement, trading his coy, tight-lipped grin for an effortlessly chilling giggle. “We’ve only scratched the surface, Oswald. You see, anyone could have given this to you if they had a mind to. But I have something far better planned.”

The exhilarating excitement Oswald felt just moments before gives way to a queer sensation of unease, and Oswald swallows dryly. He knows, after all the games he and Ed have played, that this really shouldn’t be a surprise. That all of Edward’s offerings – even the most innocuous – are susceptible to yield a sting in the tail; a game of Russian roulette in which you either die trying, or slam the firearm down on the table, scoop up the prize and leave victorious.

But Edward’s disposition suggests otherwise, this time. Once more Oswald is reminded of Ed unveiling the plump, wriggling frame of his former tormentor. Perhaps it’s the look of innate satisfaction adorning the man’s sharp features, or perhaps it’s because tonight – all of it – somehow just feels fundamentally  _ right. _

“For example,” Edward begins, his words halting Oswald’s train of thought in its tracks before it’s even arrived at the first station, “do you recognise that fellow over there by the bar?”

Oswald does indeed. Dressed in leather and sporting a black eyepatch, Oswald identifies the gentleman as one of his former hired thugs. He doesn’t, however, know the man’s name.

“A few of them are in attendance,” Ed continues. “Your old associates, I mean. Well, the ones who never once tried to assist you following your downfall. His name is Marty Hayat, by the way,” he concludes, as if reading Oswald’s mind.

Oswald appears completely flummoxed. “But why?”

“Over there by the stage – do you see the gentleman with the receding hairline?” Edward asks, evidently oblivious to Oswald’s bewilderment.

“Y- yes, I...”

“Look closer.”

Oswald obliges, leaning forward over the railings for a better view of the fellow. Male pattern baldness, tortoiseshell-framed spectacles and quite simply the worst taste in clothing Oswald has seen since-

“Alan  _ fucking _ Reyna,” he hisses.

“Alan fucking Reyna,” Edward echoes. “Your mother’s ex-boyfriend. Left her in quite the state, did he not?”

Oswald sucks in a shuddering breath, recalling the countless occasions his mother’s tear-stained face had sang him to sleep, back when Oswald himself was far too young to assist her. Alan Reyna never beat her, oh no. His preferred method of abuse was psychological – leaving contusions that would never fade. The deities were shining down upon the Kapelputs when Alan finally decided he was leaving for a younger model (but not without first informing Gertrud in extensive detail exactly  _ why _ he was leaving for a younger model), and that was the last Oswald ever saw of him. Until now.

“And that fella,” Ed continues, pointing to a thin, ginger-haired man enjoying a martini in front of the stage, “is Harry Workman. Of course, you may not remember-”

_ “The Works,” _ Oswald finishes. “The school newspaper’s fucking gossip column. H- he wrote… He wrote despicable things. Anything Malonzo and his ilk put him up to. Which dumpster did you drag him out of?”

_ “The Gazette,” _ Ed says without missing a beat. “And over here... oh, you’ll enjoy  _ this  _ one.”

He gestures towards three forty-somethings, conversing animatedly in one of the booths to the left of the stage.

“Teachers from your old high school. Teachers who never lifted a finger to help you while you suffered at the hands of your oppressors. I suspect you’ll be particularly familiar with-”

“Shaun Coates,” Oswald whispers, his mouth agape. “Principal Coates.”

“And the band...” Edward snickers, clearly, at this point, enraptured by his own sheer brilliance.

“What about the band?”

“Traffic wardens,” Ed smirks. “The lead singer, Andy Berg, gave you a parking ticket two years ago. Essentially, Ozzie, my dear Oswald, every single attendee tonight –  _ every single person _ in this room has, at some point during your life, wronged you in one way or another. And each and every one of them is a person of no consequence. They’re all nobodies. Zeroes. And we’re going to kill them all.”

Oswald’s current frame of being can only be described as dumbfounded. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, he considers the tapestry Ed has woven this evening, every thread carefully chosen and perfectly aligned, all building to some grand picture that’s only just coming into focus. It’s admittedly a lot to take in, even for someone of Oswald’s Machiavellian disposition.

“You’re probably wondering ‘How?’, I know. But the question you really ought to be asking is, ‘Why?’” Edward’s cool, predatory stare softens as he regards the man in front of him, and Oswald has never once, over the course of their relationship, seen him look so… smitten. 

“All of this,” Ed says, gesturing at the ostentatious tableau set before them, “has been for you. But I don’t just mean tonight. Everything I’ve done, everything we’ve shared since that first phone call at the GCPD – it’s all been with you in mind.”

Ed pauses, just for a moment, before drawing in close and taking Oswald’s hand in his own.

“I love you, Oswald. When you were lying unconscious, and I thought I might be losing you, I realised just how much I care for you. That you and I – we’re soulmates. Except I think I knew long before then. We’re meant for each other, Oswald. We’re the same. And I wanted you to know it, beyond any shadow of doubt. That’s what all of this is about. I wanted to show you exactly what you mean to me. I wanted to give you exactly what you deserve. And what do you give to man who has nothing?”

Reaching into his breast pocket, Edward presents Oswald with what appears to be no more than a cigar-shaped length of black plastic. It’s a small thing, scarcely larger than an AA battery, with a flat red button protruding ever so slightly from the tip. 

“Everything,” Ed smiles. “Simply press this button, and we eradicate these fatuous pests. We could even do it together, if you like.”

A wicked grin lights up the once and future King of Gotham’s pointed features, and he curls his hand around Edward’s, taking a moment to caress the device’s tiny red nub with his thumb. “Together,” he says, his pale eyes never leaving Ed’s.

Hand in hand, and sharing a look of adoration and anticipation, they push the button and observe as the night’s main event begins to unfold.

The lights dim. Doors can be heard sealing firmly shut. A siren begins to sound, a bone-chilling howl that puts Oswald in mind of the World War II movies he’d watch with his mother as a child. Thick plastic shields, so clear they could be glass, begin to descend from the rafters, encasing the balcony on which the two men stand in a clear protective shell – like an observation deck, of sorts.

“You’ll see why we need these very soon,” Ed smirks, with a glance at his watch. “One minute to go.”

As the band halts its cacophonous interpretation of Sid Vicious’ version of “My Way”, a few of the more inebriated members of the throng downstairs begin to whoop and cheer, evidently assuming that the sudden change in lighting and the fluctuating wail of the siren is somehow signalling the beginning of some grand show.  _ And it is, _ thinks Oswald,  _ but not the one you’re expecting. _

“High-density polyethylene. Simple plastic,” Edward states, rapping his knuckles lightly against the transparent shield. “The only thing that will protect us from-”

His sentence is never completed, and it doesn’t need to be. The roar of the siren winds down, and over the hushed utterances of the perplexed partygoers, a slow, steady hissing can be heard – like the approach of an extremely deadly, extremely pissed off snake.

And then – it begins to rain.

At first, the hordes of milling patrons seem mildly affronted at the apparent malfunction from the sprinklers above. They pat their heads and their clothes and observe their fingers with curiosity. A few of them crane their necks, seemingly convinced that there must be a fire somewhere. They begin to push and jostle, scrambling towards the exit – only to find that it’s locked tight. Their hushed utterances quickly evolve into a crescendo of confusion – until one of them emits a blood-curdling scream.

As Oswald watches on in amazement, the crowd below begins to steam. It collectively starts to sizzle like meat on a barbecue. Some of the folk run around, pawing at their clothing, clawing at their skin – only to have it disintegrate right before their eyes. Several of them collapse to the floor – where they squirm in agony as the deadly deluge persists, their skin peeling away like the layers of an onion.

“Hydrofluoric acid,” Edward beams, bouncing on the balls of his feet the way a child might as he stands in line for ice cream. “A corpse-disposal enthusiast’s best friend. Oh, and don’t worry about the decor by the way. I protected everything of value. This place will still be open for business... after the inevitable cleanup.”

Oswald’s face cracks into an irrepressible grin as it becomes apparent as to why all the furnishings had appeared so lustrous. They really were wrapped in plastic.

Completely in awe of Edward’s elaborate production, and rapt with the unhinged glee that could only come from watching one’s enemies begin to melt like mozzarella beneath the inescapable hydrofluoric shower, Oswald cackles. He titters. He fucking howls with laughter. It’s the most beautiful sight that he has ever been privy to – this abhorrent orgy of torment and death.

_ Edward fucking Nygma, _ he thinks.  _ You brilliant bastard. _

Oswald turns to tell him just that, but Ed is already right behind him, agile fingers pulling and tugging and pawing at Oswald’s trousers before he can utter a word.

It’s never been a secret that Edward gets off on a good kill. That had been obvious from the first time he and Oswald slid a knife into the gut of Mr. Leonard, hand in hand, and Ed had moaned as though he were getting the best blow job of his fucking life. 

Edward had restrained himself then, content to merely jerk off in the bathroom once they’d finished their fun, but any idea of self-control is all but abandoned tonight. With Oswald’s pants puddled around his ankles, Ed grabs Oswald by the waist and pulls him into a possessive embrace before tipping him back for a surprisingly tender kiss.

Oswald feels like an old Hollywood starlet in the arms of his charming leading man. Desired – cherished even. This is what he’s ached for. The taste of Ed on his lips, the tangle of tongues, the greedy swell of passion as urgent and unstoppable as a train barrelling down the tracks.

And Edward kisses him as though he’s just clawed his way back from Hell, as though he’s trying to make up for every second that his lips have been elsewhere. It’s deep and laced with longing, and Oswald realises suddenly that Edward has missed this just as much as he.

This epiphany of sorts sparks something in Oswald, rekindling the wanton desire that’s built steadily, night after chaste night, as Oswald languished alone in bed. Oswald is done with silent longing; right now he wants Edward Nygma’s fat cock inside of him, and by God he’s going to get it. 

Oswald twists his fingers in Edward’s hair and gropes at his clothes, a self-satisfied smirk pulling his lips when it’s apparent that Ed is already completely hard and straining against his trousers.

“Ed,” Oswald breathes, “fuck me. Please.”

Oswald doesn’t care if it sounds desperate; he doesn’t even care if Ed makes him beg for it. But he knows, beyond any doubt, that Edward won’t this time. This isn’t the same game they’ve been playing at all these months. In fact, everything about the evening seems to suggest that tonight isn’t about games at all. No more serpentine scavenger hunts, no more riddles – just Edward Nygma and Oswald Cobblepot, everything between them finally laid bare.

_ “Me and you. Me and you, just like this, Oswald.” _

And just like that, Ed spins him, spitting into his overlarge palm and spreading Oswald’s bare ass. Ruminations on the sentiment of the occasion melt away as Oswald gets an eyeful of the chaos in the bowels of his kingdom. The peons writhe in sheer agony, wailing and clutching and scratching against the walls in an impotent effort to flee. It’s nothing short of fucking poetry, and Oswald watches it all with the spellbound expression of a child on his first visit to the aquarium, his hands splayed against the thick plastic panel, mouth agape at the world just on the other side.

It’s at that moment that Edward pushes inside with a grunt. He grips Oswald by the shoulder, relishing the sensation of muscle yielding in the wake of sudden and complete penetration. As he moves, slow and deliberate, Ed sucks and nips Oswald’s neck, groaning as he hammers deeper, harder, faster, in a frenzy of swearing and panting and skin slapping against skin.

Every nerve ending in Oswald’s whole body is set alight; it feels as though Ed is touching him everywhere at once – inside, outside, places he never even knew existed, and a moment of perfect clarity descends upon Oswald, setting like the sun over any doubts he may have previously entertained. He loves Edward Nygma. He loves Edward Nygma vehemently – with every fibre of his being – and this must never ever stop.

He begins to laugh once more, months of games and mixed signals and uncertainty all becoming clear – steadily emerging into focus as the last few brave soldiers downstairs cease their struggling and become little more than pulp, unidentifiable from the rest in this macabre stew of limbs and anguish. He laughs. He fucking roars as each thrust from behind urges him to view everything just that little bit closer, safe from the confines of their polyethylene sanctuary.

His levity gives way to pure passion, and, with fingers still splayed on the cool surface of the transparent screen, he bears down hard, matching Edward thrust for thrust. He groans like this is the first time he’s ever been fucked – and he moans like it might be the last.

“God, Ed,  _ yes- Fuck,”  _ Oswald gasps. 

Has anything ever felt this good? This satisfying? When Edward comes, it’s Oswald’s name on his lips, and he fills Oswald to the brim before reaching around to finish him off. It takes only a few frenzied strokes to get him there; in truth, Oswald’s been half a beat from blowing his load since the moment the sprinklers switched on. 

Oswald shudders when he climaxes, unsteady on his feet – but Ed keeps him upright, wrapping his arms around Oswald in a tender embrace. Exhausted but satisfied, they survey their surroundings in relative silence; aside from the dwindling deadly hiss of the sprinklers, the ballroom is entirely still. 

****

Not fifteen minutes after the entire production began, panels now raised and sprinklers ceased, they retreat from the balcony – triumphant and enervated, and wanting for nothing more now than to simply sleep together. 

Edward leads Oswald to the opulently furnished boudoir that resides atop the bar area – the very same room that Fish Mooney had once used for her own after-hours entertainment – and they collapse, fully clothed, onto the supple, king-sized bed. It’s a surprisingly quiet end to a decidedly raucous evening, and Oswald drifts to sleep feeling, for the first time in a very long while, that he truly does have everything.

Edward himself couldn’t be more pleased. He strokes the gangster’s hair, simply enjoying the moment of quiescent serenity, until a soft wheeze begins to accompany the rise and fall of Oswald’s chest.

Satisfied with Oswald’s blissful slumber, Ed switches off the light and settles in next to the man he loves. 

“Rest up, my feathered friend,” he whispers. “Preserve your strength. Because tomorrow, we’re going to play a little game.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take our hydrofluoric shower with a pinch of Breaking Bad flavoured salt. Artistic license is wonderful, isn’t it? :)
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Playlist for this whole sordid tale can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL1beCcuwVPezP5REK7WU4HzdetTpkfMfK).
> 
> Enjoyed this tale of debauchery? Please check out our other joint efforts: [Reason Is Treason](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8546119), [Where Did You Sleep Last Night?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11199555) and [Lost Souls Forever](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9825767?view_full_work=true)!

**Author's Note:**

> Lovely things made by lovely people:
> 
> [Chapter 1 by veromejaleska](http://veromejaleska.tumblr.com/post/141237732556/oswald-fleetingly-considers-calling-edward-out-on)
> 
> [Chapter 2 by veromejaleska](http://veromejaleska.tumblr.com/post/142272044621/the-idea-of-falling-prostrate-before-anyone-or)
> 
> [Chapter 2 by why-not-edwald](http://why-not-edwald.tumblr.com/post/142453737833/it-should-feel-so-much-more-wrong-oswald-knows-he)
> 
> [Chapter 3 by why-not-edwald](http://why-not-edwald.tumblr.com/post/142655006063/he-doesnt-for-one-second-believe-that-ed-has-it)
> 
> [Chapter 3 by veromejaleska](http://veromejaleska.tumblr.com/post/142713771051/neither-man-seems-eager-to-move-the-intimacy-of)
> 
> [Chapters 1-3 by me (okimi79/SilentSinger) hi!](http://okimi79.tumblr.com/post/144460257756/the-bird-and-the-worm-chapters-1-3-by)
> 
> [Chapter 4 by veromejaleska](http://veromejaleska.tumblr.com/post/144683712151/oswald-takes-a-moment-to-consider-the-elaborate)
> 
> [Chapter 5 by my immensely talented cupcake in crime - riddlelvr/rissalf <3](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/147494288193/i-really-think-that-its-about-time-you-showed-me)
> 
> [Chapter 5 by veromejaleska](http://veromejaleska.tumblr.com/post/148007601671/there-are-very-few-things-on-this-god-forsaken)
> 
> [Chapter 3 by baskervilleshund](http://baskervilleshund.tumblr.com/post/149469226560/the-bird-and-the-worm-ch-3)
> 
> [Chapters 1-6 by baskervilleshund](http://baskervilleshund.tumblr.com/post/149513857496/the-bird-and-the-worm-complete)
> 
> [Chapters 4-6 by me (okimi79/SilentSinger) hello again!](http://okimi79.tumblr.com/post/149890926165/the-bird-and-the-worm-chapters-4-6-by-riddlelvr)
> 
> [Chapter 6 by veromejaleska](http://veromejaleska.tumblr.com/post/151403436281/i-love-you-oswald-when-you-were-lying)
> 
> [Chapters 1-6 by the immeasurably talented riddlelvr/rissalf (GOD JUST FUCKING LOOK AT THIS UGH)](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/152996403130/rest-up-my-feathered-friend-preserve-your)
> 
> [Playlist gifset by riddlelvr/rissalf](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/157410688988/the-bird-the-worm-playlist)
> 
> [Chapters 1-6 by the wonderful veromejaleska](http://veromejaleska.tumblr.com/post/161907580211/the-bird-and-the-worm-by-okimi79-and-riddlelvr)


End file.
